


this grave ain't big enough for the two of us

by sajere1



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:56:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7474140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sajere1/pseuds/sajere1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, to be clear,” McCree says. “You two are it, right? No other drop-ins from dead old friends I should worry about?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” 76 says.</p>
<p>“JUST US,” says Reaper.</p>
<p>“I mean, who the hell else would there be.”</p>
<p>“CERTAINLY NOT ANA.”</p>
<p>“That would be stupid.”</p>
<p>"Great," McCree says. "Glad that's settled."</p>
<p>[or: slight au where all of the once-dead-but-now-alive ex-overwatch members make themselves known, all at once, at mccree and hanzo's wedding]</p>
            </blockquote>





	this grave ain't big enough for the two of us

“Who is that omnic?” Hanzo whispers, adjusting his tie. “I believe I know his voice.”

“Huh?” McCree drags his gaze from Hanzo’s extremely well-fitting suit – white, Hanzo had insisted, which is not exactly going well considering the messy pastries now on the table before them, but considering McCree kept his cowboy hat he ain’t exactly in a place to argue – over to where an omnic with eight small holes above a pair of eye-slits is juggling, much to the amusement of his well-dressed date. “Oh. That’s Genji and his boyfriend – used to be in Overwatch together, and he offered t’ come.”

There is a moment of flat silence.

“That’s who and his boyfriend?” Hanzo says, voice curiously monotone.

“Genji.” McCree puts a hand on his fiancé’s shoulder – on his _husband’s shoulder,_ he thinks gleefully, and hides his grin behind the back of his other hand. “Y’ alright, sweetheart?”

Hanzo squints for another long moment. Then he says, “Jesse, how long have we known each other?”

Oh, no. This is not going in a good direction.

“Jesse,” Hanzo says, one eyebrow raised – but a smile’s tugging at his lips the way it always does when McCree’s done something Fondly Exasperating™, so Jesse figures he’s in the clear. Hanzo sighs and takes the hand on his shoulder, rubbing the back of McCree’s palm with his thumb. “We have known each other for six years.”

“That’s just what I was about to say,” McCree says agreeably, and Hanzo snorts.

“And in six years,” Hanzo says, “it has not occurred to you that you are acquainted with a man named Genji, who appears to have been brought back from the brink of death?”

McCree has no idea what’s going on. “I have no idea what’s going on,” he says, in that stunning, clever way-with-words method that he always uses called Stupidly Blunt which Hanzo so appreciates.

“Jesse,” Hanzo says. “My brother was named Genji. Remember, the brother who we just learned did not die?”

There is a long moment of silence.

“Okay,” McCree says, “I’m about ninety-nine percent sure you never told me that.”

Hanzo lets his raised eyebrow speak for itself. “Don’t you look at me in that tone,” McCree says stiffly. “I ain’t dumb. I woulda remembered it.”

“Really,” Hanzo says.

“The real question is,” McCree says, “how have we known each other for six years without you trusting me with your brother’s name? Shady. Who knows what dirty secrets you might be hidin’.” McCree pulls his hand back to wag his finger dramatically as he reaches for his glass of water.

“As I recall, you seem to be very fond of my dirtier secrets,” Hanzo says, tactically waiting until McCree is halfway through swallowing his water for ultimate humor. In a slightly less sexual manner, McCree chokes. Hanzo pats him on the back as he hacks up his drink, face going bright red.

Hanzo keeps his hand on McCree’s back as he finally regains his breath, hand rubbing soothing circles on his new husband’s back. “You know there is nothing I have not shared with you,” Hanzo says, and his voice is quieter now – serious. “There are things I have trusted you with that I have...I’ve never...” He clears his throat. “If I kept this information with you, it was not intentional.”

“It’s okay,” McCree reassures, leaning in to give Hanzo a gentle kiss on the cheek – and just like every time McCree shows him public affection, Hanzo’s face _lights up,_ the sort of giggly expression usually seen on seventh graders being asked to their first dance, and McCree smiles against his cheek. “Woulda made the wedding reception a hell of a lot less awkward, but it’s done now.”

Hanzo hesitates for a long moment, glancing between Genji and McCree. McCree is fairly certain that Genji is aware of the gaze, but he’s just as sure that Genji is giving it the time it needs – letting his brother make the choice of distance or reconciliation.

McCree rests his head on Hanzo’s shoulder, cowboy hat tipping so it hangs precariously over only half of his head. “Want me to go with you to talk to him?” he says, because he knows Hanzo the way most know how to breathe – innately, instinctively, constantly – and he knows this conversation is going to happen. Hanzo can’t pass it up. Not now, not with so many years of regret and pain. 

“No,” Hanzo says. “But...thank you.” He brushes his fingers over McCree’s knuckles, quick, before he stands, dislodging his husband from his shoulder and knocking the cowboy hat to the floor. He gives McCree a quick peck on the mouth before he stands up straight, hesitates for a moment, sets his shoulders, and walks.

By the time McCree’s picked up his hat off the floor, Hanzo is standing quietly a few feet away from where Genji and Zenyatta are whispering together, silently waiting.

McCree shakes his head and heads towards where Angela is sitting at the bar.

+x+

_“DEATH COMES,”_ says a loud, haunting voice, and suddenly there is a wisp of purple smoke on the dance floor.

There is a long moment of absolute silence.

“...to CONGRATULATE YOU,” creepy-grim-reaper-death-mask-guy amends quickly, before doing his best imitation of that polite irritable crowd-maneuvering, which turns out to be very difficult when the entire room has ceased their activities to stare at you.

“JESSE,” he says, and McCree almost spits out his beer.

“And who are you?” Mercy says, slow, hand inching towards her pocket, where Fareeha no doubt insisted she bring a pistol just in case.

“D E A T H,” says the grim reaper, his voice growing somewhat desperate. “PLEASE DON’T HURT ME. I BROUGHT A PRESENT.”

“What the fuck,” Jesse says.

“IT IS I, GABRIEL.”

This does not exactly dispel the staring of the room.

“PLEASE ASK YOUR FRIENDS TO STOP PREPARING THEIR WEAPONS,” Gabriel says.

“Gabriel Reyes?” McCree says disbelievingly. “How – “ Mercy is suddenly shifty-eyed. _“Really?”_

“In my defense,” Mercy begins, and then is immediately forced to end when Gabriel shoves her off the seat and clambers up next to him.

McCree stares. “This – okay, this actually isn’t possible. You’re dead.”

“THAT IS SORT OF THE POINT, YES.”

“No, I mean...dead-dead. Deceased. I been visiting your grave every year for about twenty years now. You ain’t alive.”

“YOU’RE...HALF RIGHT I THINK. MAYBE A QUARTER RIGHT? I AM NOT ENTIRELY CLEAR ON THE STATUS OF MY OWN MORTALITY.”

McCree stares for another long, hard moment.

Then he sighs. “You said you brought presents?”

The mask can’t move, but if it could, McCree is pretty sure it would be grinning at him.

+x+

The guy with the 76 on his back comes in with the stunning fanfare of “Brought a gift. It’s a gun. Happy wedding. Are you aware that there’s a sniper with her sights trained on you right now?”

“And who in the hell are you,” Jesse says, because he was _trying_ to get to where his husband and maybe-brother-in-law are having what appears to be a very serious conversation, dangit.

76 grunts for a disturbingly long time. “Morrison. Keep up, McCree, it isn’t exactly a secret. Sniper. Door.”

“SHE’S DOING THAT BECAUSE SHE’S BORED,” Reyes says in the same terrifying monotone that Lucio was using as a baseline earlier. “IT’S JUST HOW SHE HAS FUN.”

“Reaper!” 76 snarls, and McCree is going to bang his head against the wall until he hemorrhages his way out of this goddamn wedding, Christ. 

“PLEASE CALM DOWN, MORRISON,” Reaper says. “THERE IS NO NEED FOR YOU TO RUIN A PERFECTLY NORMAL PARTY. YOU’RE MAKING A SCENE.”

“I’m making a scene? You’re wearing grim reaper cosplay!”

“IT IS NOT COSPLAY, IT IS WHO I AM.” Reaper’s voice is somehow stiff, even electronically. “WHICH IS YOUR FAULT. BY THE WAY.”

“Why,” Jesse says, and 76 (Morrison? Who knows at this point) opens his mouth to argue but Jesse just puts up a hand because this is his wedding day, dammit. “ _Why_ did you bring a sniper.”

“RIGHT. I WAS GOING TO MENTION IT EARLIER.” Reaper nods as if that settles that matter.

Jesse stares. Reaper nods again.

“...BLINK TWICE IF YOU’RE BEING FORCED INTO THIS,” Reaper adds in as whisper-y a tone one can get when they literally cannot variate their voice volume at all.

“Wha – _don’t kill my husband holy shit.”_

Reaper discretely puts a hand to his ear. “NEGATIVE ON THE HUSBAND MURDER,” he says, and Jesse hears something that sounds vaguely like ‘fucking stupid.’ “THERE,” says Reaper, letting his hand drop. “DONE.” 

“Can I kill him,” 76 says.

“Later,” Jesse says.

“YOU CAN TRY,” Reaper says.

_“Later,”_ Jesse says.

Reaper does the equivalent of making a face. “So, to be clear,” McCree says. “You two are it, right? No other drop-ins from dead old friends I should worry about?”

“Oh, no,” 76 says.

“JUST US,” says Reaper.

“I mean, who the hell else would there be."

“CERTAINLY NOT ANA.”

“That would be stupid.”

“THE STUPIDEST. HOW WOULD THAT EVEN HAPPEN.”

“It wouldn’t.”

“EXACTLY.”

“Great,” Jesse says, sighing and rubbing down his face in quiet relief. “Glad that’s settled.”

+x+

“I hate Overwatch,” Jesse says, banging his head slowly against the wall as Ana Amari – who is _so proud of him and the husband he’s found, her little boy is all grown up_ – breakdances to the slow, warbling tunes of YMCA that Reaper and 76 are belting out. “I hate Overwatch. I hate Overwatch. I hate Overwatch.”

“No, you don’t,” says Hanzo, where he is patting McCree’s shoulder consolingly with one hand and holding his cowboy hat with the other.

“Yes I do,” McCree says. “So much. I didn’t realize anyone could hate this much before now. It’s amazing. Really. I should teach a class.”

Hanzo sighs, fond. “On the plus side,” he says, “my conversation with Genji went rather well.”

“I’m glad something did,” McCree grumbles, and Hanzo rolls his eyes.

“Well,” he says, tugging McCree gently away from the wall, “if the reception is too much for you, we could always leave early.” He brushes the cowboy hat once with his hand before reaching up and setting it, gentle, on McCree’s head; he has to stand on his toes to reach, and his face is so close that McCree can smell his breath, can practically taste him if he tries. Hanzo smiles shyly and McCree’s heart beats a couple paces faster. “I would not mind being alone with you sooner rather than later.”

McCree grins. “Mighty fine suit.”

“But it would look better on the floor?” Hanzo prompts.

“Damn,” says McCree. “Stealing all my best lines. Soon you won’t even need me here to flirt with you.”

“Don’t worry,” Hanzo says fondly, taking McCree’s face in his hands and setting a gentle kiss on his nose. “That won’t happen any time soon.”

Genji waves as they walk out. Hanzo is practically glowing; McCree is vibrating.

Hanzo is right. He doesn’t hate Overwatch.

And also, his suit _would_ look better on the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> this is fucking stupid


End file.
